I AM BLACK BUT I AM NOT GOING TO HURT YOU

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I crossed the road and veered right
towards our sister building – a student hall of residence. I was billed to meet
up with friends at the lobby. It was a rare sunny September day in London. The greens
of Regents Park were teeming with sun worshipers who flocked to the Park in
great numbers to get much needed dose of the sunshine this late in the year. As
soon as I turned, I saw her laboring up the stairs of the train station. I
guessed she was at least eighty five years of age. She had a hunchback, which
left her bending painfully as she climbed one mighty step at a time out of
Regents Park Station. At her snail’s speed, I wondered how long it would take
her to get home. In one hand she had a walking stick to support herself, and in
the other were a few bags that seemed too heavy for her age. As soon as she had
ascended the last step onto ground level, she slowly stepped aside so as not to
impede incoming and outgoing passengers at the station. She dropped her bags
and stood, or shall I say bent over, supporting herself with her walking stick.
From a distance, I could tell she was in pain from walking. People walked
hurriedly by in typical London style. I could not help but worry how she was
going to make it home. I slowed down, wondering whether I should offer a
helping hand.

She hunkered down and picked up her
bags. Slowly, she trudged laboriously towards Harley Street. I pretended to be
watching squirrels squabbling over a nut in the tree. I hardly paid attention
to them. My eyes and mind were squarely fixated on her. I could tell she was in
pain by the grimace on her face. No doubt, she was a tough woman. Burdened by
pain and the weight of her grocery, she soldiered on; one slow step at a time.
Somebody has to help her, I thought to myself. I had only arrived in London a
few weeks back, so all of my African norms and values were very much pristine;
unscathed by the frenetic pace of modern life in cosmopolitan London. Obviously,
this was normal to everyone else because they nonchalantly walked by; barely
noticing the old woman and her harrowing labor.

“Let me help you Mam,” I offered. I
could no longer stand and watch. Standing there and watching hoping that some
else would do the dirty job would have left a bitter taste in my mother’s
mouth. She always emphasized to my siblings and I to always offer a helping
hand to the elderly and the disabled. My experience in the few weeks I had been
in London had indicated that everyone kept to themselves in the big city; a
code I was unwilling to subscribe to, yet. The burden of walking by and
carrying on as though I had not noticed her would have stalked me for a long
time to come. She sluggishly squinted up at me. All of a sudden, I could sense
fear in her eyes. Tired and hindered, she tightened her grip on her grocery
bags as hard as her eighty-something-year old hands could go. She became shaky;
visibly petrified. She wanted to say something, but I could see fear choking
her voice; snatching words away from her. Nonplused, I wondered what I could
have done wrong. “Sorry Mam, is everything okay? I can help you with the bags
to your house if you don’t mind,” I politely offered once again, stretching my
hand toward her. “Thanks I am fine,” she managed to say. Her words were barely
audible. Her shaking had intensified. I could tell she needed a breather; some
rest from the standing, but she was not willing to let go of her precious bags;
not under the circumstance.

“Okay Mam, take it easy,” I said with
disappointment. As I began to walk away, I wondered why she would not accept my
offer. Then, she dropped her bags and slowly angled her neck to take another
look at me. I was leaving slowly, hoping she’d have a change of heart. I was
looking back at her the same time she had turned to look at me. Our eyes met.
Then, it struck me. I turned back and walked back to her. “I am black but I am
not going to hurt you,” I said with righteous indignation. I did not have the
time to be diplomatic. I had to say it as I saw it. “I mean, I won’t steal your
bags Mam,” I clarified. “Oh no! It has nothing to do with that,” she shot back
at me. She was not a good liar. Her eyes and demeanor said a different thing altogether.
“Then let me help you Mam. My name is Victor. I am an African student. I live
over there,” I insisted, pointing at my building. As I spoke, I miraculously
managed a smile on my face. “Oh, I see a lot of students from Africa around
here,” she said. A feeble smile sauntered across her face. “Yes, most of us
live at the International Students House there and there,” I said, pointing at
both buildings from a distance. “So where are you from?” “Nigeria.” “My father
worked in Nigeria back in the day. I spent some time in Lagos as a child,” she said.
Her smile was growing warmer and I could sense she was less afraid. “I lived in
Lagos before moving to London.” “It was a beautiful place back then, many years
ago.” I saw her eyes glow as she reminisced on the yesteryears. “It is
different now. I still find it very beautiful, I guess in a different way than
when you last saw it.” “I am sure it has changed a lot,” she replied.

“Grab my bags. My place is just over
there,” she finally offered. I leaned over, grabbed the bags in my right hand
and offered her my left hand for extra support. She took my hand. We chatted
garrulously about Lagos and Kano as we walked to her house. I found she was
well versed in Nigeria and the rest of Africa. She told me they lived in
Nigeria, Zambia, Ghana, Botswana and Lesotho back in the day. She squeezed my
hand kindly as we neared her house. When we got to her front door, I helped her
up the steps. She slowly rummaged through her purse which had been hanging
quietly on her shoulder and dug up her key. “Do you care for coffee?” She
offered as she squeezed the key in the keyhole. Her old, weak hands shook as
she performed the herculean task of opening the door. “No thanks!” I replied.
“I won’t take no for answer. You have to come in,” she insisted. “No Mam!” I
said, holding my stance. I stepped in a little, just to drop her bags on the
side table near the door. I did not want to spend too long in her house due to
my ‘blackness’. I was worried that if anything should go awry for any reason, I
could be an easy target. “Now you are being silly about this race thing,” she
accused me. She understood why I did not want to stay. Grudgingly, I stayed. “I
don’t drink coffee Mam. Water will do,” I said closing her front door. She took
hr grocery bags to the kitchen.

Her house was impeccably furnished. A
gorgeous chandelier hung off the ceiling, illuminating the living room with
exquisite finesse. The walls were impeccably adorned with paintings that reeked
of ‘high end’. Slowly and carefully she returned, negotiating around the couches
in her living room with a cup of water in hand. She sat opposite me and said,
“I am sorry.” I was not expecting that. I glared at her. I was trying not to
embarrass her, so I did not know what to say. “I mean about earlier on. You
were right. I guess at my age I can admit things like that. After all, I
haven’t got much time here, so they can’t send me to jail,” she joked.
“Sometimes you don’t quite realize you have thoughts like that in you, but with
all the stuff in the news you know…it gets in your head and before you know it,
you find yourself worried and scared when facing a black person.” I had never
seen such sincerity. At the time, a lot of stabbings and thefts at knife point
were going on in London, and most of the arrested perpetrators happened to be
black. “It is okay Mam. I understand; with everything going on,” I said trying
to put her at ease. “No, it is not. I should know better than treat every black
person like that; after all I lived in Africa for a long time.” “We all have
things we have to keep working on you know,” I said. “At my age if I have not
figure things like this out, then I must be dumb. I should know better. I am
sorry Victor.”

She did remember my name. “Mam, it’s
over. I accept your apology. Age has nothing to do with it. Like you said; with
all the things flying around in the news your perception can be easily high
jacked, in a very subtle way.” “I know you are trying to give me a way out,
which is nice, but the truth is that I goofed.” “Your goof is forgiven Mam.”
She smiled. “It is good to talk to someone, you know. My husband died a year
ago. Cancer! It has been a torrid time without him around. I can’t wait to be
with the Lord; to see my husband again. Are you married?” “No, I am not. I am
sorry about your husband,” I answered, trying to imagine the depth of her pain.
“Thanks. I sure miss him.” We sat in silence for a moment and then she said,
“Come around and talk to an old woman when you have the time. I promise I will
let you in despite your skin color,” she said jokingly. “And I will come right
in despite your skin color,” I replied.

She insisted on walking me to the door
when I was leaving. She squeezed my hand firmly. Her eyes were filled with
kindness and tenderness. “You must visit Victor,” she said. Her tone was imbued
with authority. She sounded like my grandmother extracting a promise from me to
come and visit her. “I will come by Mrs. Robinson. It is a promise.” She waved
as I descended the stairs and headed towards Great Portland Street. I did go back
to visit Mrs. Robinson once or twice a week, sometimes with a friend or two. It
was always refreshing to see her, and she always made sure she gave my hand a
gentle squeeze before I left, and even though she knew I’d come back, she never
failed to remind me to do so, which I did. One afternoon, I went over only to
be greeted by movers. Mrs. Robinson had died. Her son who lived abroad was
selling the place; the movers told me. As I walked along the same path knowing
that I would ever see her again, a stream of tears threatened to invade the corridors
of my eyes, and soon it was descending down my face. I was glad I met her. I am
still glad I knew her for a short while before she passed away. Most of all, I
am pleased that I did not walk away from her with a notion that did not truly
reflect the kind and loving person she truly was!

This story was written by:

Victor Chinoo

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